A Fool's Gold
by theDubliner
Summary: Upon seeing that the unfortunate newsie with whom he was speaking understood not a whit of what he was saying, the gentleman clarified his rhetoric: "Your friend has just become richer than William Randolph Hearst."
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: So, though this is my first story under my new pen name, I'm an old hand at fanfiction. I am back after about five years, and starting off with something a little more light-hearted and a little less dramatic than what I usually write. I suppose there's very little to say other than that my sincerest wish is that you enjoy the story, and give me some feedback please. Should these two things occur, we'll be good friends in no time : )_

**_Disclaimer: Alas, the Newsies are not my own._**

It all began with Mush's cold. Mush belonged to that rare class of individuals whose immune system seems to grant them perpetual health. So when he fell ill that December, all the newsboys residing at Kloppman's Lodging House were shocked. The long overdue illness, however, consumed the poor boy with a vengeance. Mush was all snot and tears for over a week and the other boys were scraping pennies to keep him under a roof. It was quite near Christmas and Mush was just mourning his ill luck at being bedridden during such a wonderful selling time, when there came a knock at the door.

It must be noted that there were only two classes of people to pass through the doors of Kloppman's Lodging House (if not Kloppman himself). First were the newsies, and as the Lodging House was their home they felt no need to knock. The second were the bulls, and they don't generally possess manners enough to knock when they're on their way to collar an unfortunate delinquent newsboy. Therefore it was at this moment that Mush realized he had never, ever, heard anyone knock on that door.

The poor invalid knew that he was the only one home to answer. He also knew that going all the way downstairs would probably take more energy than he had at present. Finally, bemoaning his weakness in letting his curiosity overcome his precarious physical condition, Mush pulled a ratty blanket around his shoulders and made his way to the door.

"Who is it?" he asked politely, cringing at how raspy his own voice sounded.

The answer was delivered in the tones of a gentleman and Mush opened the door as he apologized:

"Whatcha sayin'?" he coughed. "I'm sorry, I can't hear nuthin', and even less than nuthin' through dat big door."

Once the door was opened the two men stared at each other as if through the looking-glass. The one being sick and sullied, housing dirt upon his person everywhere from behind his ears to under his fingernails – the other being stuffy and shiny, clearly pleased with the fact that even his bald spot was reflective with polish.

"May I inquire if there be here living an individual by the name of Anthony Higgins?"

Mush didn't understand much of what was being said to him, but he recognized the name. "Sure does, but he's out sellin'. Wanna wait?" Mush opened the door to offer the inside of his dingy little home. The stranger must have taken it for granted that he had had the good fortune to have alighted upon the nicest newsie in the place (anyone else would have responded to a similar inquiry with a resounding "Who's askin'?" or perhaps no more than a rude "Beat it!" before slamming the door in his face), for he merely turned up his nose and proffered a business card and a letter.

"Unfortunately I haven't the leisure to linger. Please offer Mr. Higgins my sincerest apologies to that effect. I leave this to your good keeping, sir, and implore you to impress upon your comrade the importance of his immediate compliance in reporting to the address given on the card."

Mush fumbled with keeping hold of his blanket and reaching for the documents. "Uh, sure. I'll get it tah him."

The man inclined his head graciously and turned to depart when Mush's curiosity overcame his sense for the second time that afternoon. "Heya mister!" he called, before the man could reach the street. "What's dis all about anyhow? If ya don't mind me askin'."

The man chuckled and explained: "Why, whether or not it be known to him, Mr. Higgins is the only remaining heir to a very old and a very wealthy family. The last will and testament of my late master having been read just this Sunday past, his lawyer sent me to secure the young man with all possible haste." Upon seeing that the unfortunate newsie with whom he was speaking understood not a whit of what he was saying, the gentleman clarified his rhetoric: "Your friend has just become richer than William Randolph Hearst."

The gentleman then departed with a charitable smile upon his lips, secretly entertaining the hope that the young newsie who was about to become his new master would not be quite so unrefined as the simple individual with whom he'd just crossed paths. Mush retreated wondering how he would tell Racetrack without his friend suffering a conniption...


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: My goodness! Thank you for the reviews, I wasn't expecting any on a first story, lol. Anyhow, this chapter introduces our hero and a few of the other major players. I hope it keeps your attention. The next chapter will be the last one before Race confronts his new life, I promise, but I couldn't help a few chapters of newsies silliness before the seriousness all happened. Anyhow, please let me know if you have any constructive criticism, and I will try my best to maintain a story that we'll all enjoy. P.S. if you'd like to read my older work, my pen-name back then was: -'0'EmeraldEyes'0'- . It would be cool to get some feedback on old work. Anyhow, on with the story!_

_**Disclaimer: Racetrack: not mine. Mush: not mine. Jack: not mine. Boo hoo.**_

It was now well after noon and our poor, dear Mush was sitting and staring at the letter the gentleman had left him hours ago. It lay on the nightstand now, innocently white and deceptively unadorned. Mush stared at it with a curious mixture of loathing and greedy curiosity. It must be understood that while Mush was, of course, the most genuine and honest of the newsboys, even _he_ could not sit with a mystery in his hands for hours and not be driven nearly mad by the unknown. He had tried everything. First he had dragged his poor sick self out into the cold to hold the envelope up to the sun, but it was folded and the overlapping words were all a jumbled mess. He had tried holding a candle under it to melt the wax seal, but of course had nearly lit it on fire. He had even snooped around Kloppman's office in the hope that perhaps the old man had some envelopes and sealing wax lying around so he could reseal it when he was finished. But of course this course of action was too sneaky for Mush and he'd hardly begun when he'd reluctantly trudged back upstairs, shoulders slumped, his conscience scolding him the whole way.

So now, there he sat, chin in his hands, elbows on his knees, glowering over the unfortunate document before him. Mush knew the boys would be home shortly, and so there was nothing for it but to continue his staring contest with the torturous mystery letter.

Finally, _finally_, there came the promising sound of voices and laughter from without. The poor young man tripped twice over his blankets in his haste to fling open the street-side window.

"Jack!" he screamed, the pain in his throat protesting as he called: "Cowboy! Where's Race? I gotta tawk tah Race, _now_!"

Jack looked concerned, "Get back in da house, Mush, whatcha think ya doin', it's freezin'! Da fevah go tah ya head, or what?"

Mush shook his head impatiently as he watched the boys all playing in the snow and not listening to a word he was saying. Didn't they know how _important_ this was? Less than two minutes later and Mush had snatched the letter from the nightstand and was outside waving it in front of Jack's face. "Ya gotta listen! Dis came fah Race tahday an' I gots it cause I was home sick. Da man comes tah da door and asks fah Race, an' I tells him he wasn't home. Ya know, Jack, cause you was all out sellin', an' I told him dat-"

"Mush, if it's so damn important ya gotta spit it out already, ya gonna catch ya death," said Kid Blink, who had rushed over when he saw his best friend stagger into the snow.

Mush heaved a deep breath. "He's rich, guys! Racetrack's rich!"

While the word "rich" had attracted the attention of every newsie within hearing distance, the thought of Racetrack Higgins having even a penny to his name without gambling it away was unlikely indeed, and Mush's declaration was met by a roar of laughter. Mush, however, was not so easily deterred. He held the letter as high as he could above his head and bellowed: "_But it's in da lettah_!"

There was a moment of uncertain silence as Mush stood, panting, holding the letter on which every pair of eyes was now resting. Then, pandemonium. A sea of hands came pushing and shoving and grabbing for the letter, while a chorus of voices rang out:

"Is dere money in dat envelope?"

"Where'd ya get dat, Mushee?"

"Why's Race da one whose gonna be rich? Can't none a' us get da money?"

"Maybe we's could all share, huh?"

"Yeah, dat's fair, dat's fair!"

Thankfully Jack got there first, and he plucked the letter from Mush's grasp before anyone else, calling over the noise: "Alright, _alright!_ Listen, ya idiots, nobody's seein' nuttin' or gettin' no money till we all get inside and I can figure dis all out!"

So Jack Kelly, as he was wont to do, maintained order and led a gang of scraggly newsboys into the Lodging House. Blink followed close behind, helping poor sick Mush navigate the steps with now frozen bare feet.

Once inside, Jack sat in the common room in his chair, the biggest and comfiest chair, of course reserved for the leader. He sat back, put his feet up, and held the letter in close proximity to his nose, studying it from every angle. Mush, meanwhile, was setting himself up in the chair next to Jack, huffing and puffing and wiping his nose. There was absolute silence while Jack performed his examination. When he had gathered all the information he possibly could from the letter, he turned to the boys and declared: "Mush is right, it's got Race's name on da front", then he turned to Mush: "Now tell me where ya got dis again."

The boys respectfully held their peace while Mush related the morning's events. When it was clear the story was over, however, they couldn't contain themselves.

"Open it, Jack!"

"We gotta know what's inside!"

"Race ain't gonna be home fah hours!"

"We can't wait _dat_ long!"

Jack raised his hand for quiet, and it was granted. Then he protested, in a very lofty manner: "Dis lettah ain't _addressed_ tah us, and so we can't open it. Dat's against da law – any moron knows _dat_."

Specs, who had read enough to know better, snorted and said "Dey ain't gonna arrest us, Jack, c'mon. We ain't gonna steal it or nothin'."

For perhaps another fifteen minutes the boys fought back and forth over what to do with the mysterious letter.

Now it must have been providence that kept Racetrack from finding a ride to the track that day, because if he had not walked through the door at that very moment, it is a certainty that there would have been a mutiny within the four walls of Kloppman's Lodging House.

"Heya fellahs, what's up?" he asked upon seeing the large crowd gathered in the common room and yelling fit to raise the dead.

Silence again. Jack stood up quickly and said, "Alright, ya blockheads. Go on and go do somethin' so I can give Race his lettah."

The boys grudgingly obeyed, but none went too far.

Race approached Jack and shook out his snowy hat. "I gots a lettah?" he laughed, "Who in da name a' Jesus would write tah me, huh?"

Mush was still sitting in the chair next to Jack and watching Racetrack without blinking. He could not suppress the pride that welled up inside of him as he recalled how he had safely guarded that letter and its secret all day long.

Racetrack wiped his hands on his trousers before taking the letter and fell onto a sofa with only one arm, casually putting his left ankle up onto his right knee and lounging back to do his reading. Now it must be understood that while Racetrack Higgins _could_ read, he hadn't very much practice. After all, he knew the important words to look for in the headlines: murder, war, prostitute, fire, etc. So while the letter was only a single page, it took him approximately seven minutes to get through it. The rest of the newsies were watching with bated breath as Race's posture slowly became less and less relaxed until finally he was hunched over the letter in his hands, mouth hanging open.

After he'd finished, Racetrack looked up and found every pair of eyes on him, waiting for his reaction. Suddenly he frowned, feeling bitterly betrayed. "Dis ain't a funny joke, guys!"

Mush hurriedly corrected him, "No, Race, it ain't a joke, I sweah! I was heah all day and da guy really gave me dat lettah and told me tah give it straight tah you. I wouldn't make dat up, Race, now what's it _say_?"

The thoughts of Racetrack Higgins were all a blur suddenly. True, the letter was written in a very legal and professional manner and so much of it was lost on the poor boy. The general idea was quite clear, however. He, Anthony Higgins, had apparently been given a whole lot a money by some very rich, very dead relation.

It might seem strange that his first reaction was not to jump for joy, to throw his hat into the air and declare that he would never sell another pape in his life. But there was a part of Racetrack, deep beneath the wit and wisecracks, that knew everything in his life had just changed. His center of gravity had violently shifted and he did not feel like yelling at all. He felt more like he needed to crawl into bed and sleep for a whole day before he could sort out the mess his life had just become.

"Jack," his voice came out as almost a whisper, "I wanna go tah Brooklyn."

It should not have surprised anyone that the first thing Racetrack would want to do would be to tell his best friend, but the agony of keeping silent was driving the other newsies mad. Jack shot them a look warning them to keep the peace, and he put on his hat. "Alright, Race, Brooklyn it is."

And so the Manhattan newsies were left to their own thoughts that evening, wondering when an explanation would be given and how soon they would be losing their friend.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note__: Chapter Three! I'm rather impressed with myself, I usually don't do so well with chapter stories haha. Anyhow, we do meet Spot in this chapter and if you think your detect a hint of slash developing, you are correct. I think, however, that this hint will remain just that: a hint. To all you slash-haters, you may continue to think of our boys as the best of friends; for the rest of you, you may think like me that there is really some unspoken emotions of a deeper kind. Whichever way you choose to interpret it, I don't think there will be any actual confirmation of an explicit relationship in this, my first story back on fanfiction. It seemed to get me in a lot of trouble last time, hehe. Alright, that's enough of that. Enjoy, please enjoy, and review! Cause that's my favorite part. And thanks again to all the wonderful people who have already been leaving wonderful reviews._

_**Disclaimer**__**: I own The Red Sails tavern! That's about it though …**_

Winter was_ not_ Brooklyn's best season. In fact, winter in Brooklyn was pretty near miserable. Not even Christmas could brighten up the grey ice and brown snow. Manhattan lit up for Christmas – Jack Kelly and his boys enjoyed all the benefits of carolers and Christmas trees in Central Park – but no such luck for the boys across the river. Summer was the season for Brooklyn, when the sun transformed the muddy side roads into dusty dirt that was more easily trod upon and the underfed forms of half-naked Brooklyn boys could be seen hanging on and jumping off the magnificent bridge into the East River.

Spot Conlon thought of summer on this night, one of the coldest December had delivered thus far. It was perhaps six o'clock in the evening, and despite the fact that the sun had long since disappeared, the newsie's day was far from over. The evening edition was often the hardest to sell, and Spot was not relishing the idea of trudging another night through the slush with boots that were far from shiny and new. It was with a fair amount of peaked interest, therefore, that Conlon spied three figures making their way across the Brooklyn Bridge, one sporting an absurdly unmistakable cowboy hat. "Jacky boy," Spot chuckled ironically to himself, "What could youse be wantin' at dis time of a lovely Tuesday evenin'?"

Spot did not even look back towards the distribution center as he set off across the bridge to meet his friends. A moment or two into his journey and he was conflicted with mixed feelings, for the two young men standing either side of the Manhattan leader were one of his favorite and one of his least favorite people: Racetrack Higgins and David Jacobs. Spot chuckled as he reached behind him and took hold of the handle of the slingshot in his pocket, never breaking stride. Why not liven up his night with a little fun at Mouth's expense? When he was yet close enough to wield his weapon, and not quite close enough to talk, Spot let off a few small shooters near the ground at David's feet. A squeal and a stumble let him know he hadn't missed his mark.

"All right," Spot heard Jack's voice call, "dat's enough a' dat" though there was veiled amusement in the reprimand.

Spot pocketed his most prized possession while the three other boys jogged to close the gap between them and the Brooklyn king.

By rights Jack Kelly was the first to shake Spot's hand, and they performed their ritual spit-shake before Jack stepped back and let Racetrack greet his best friend. Jack had known the two friends long enough to notice the way in which Spot seemed just that much less frightening in Racetrack's presence. He noticed, but hell if he could explain it. Spot smiled now, just a little crookedly, and shoved Race's shoulder teasingly, "What's dis? Ya miss me, Higgins? Ya saw me t'ree days ago, ya doe-eyed Nancy."

Racetrack shoved Spot's hand away, "Yeah yeah," he huffed, and Spot knew immediately that this was no social visit. With a curt nod to acknowledge David's presence – which David accepted gratefully as more than he usually received from the terrifying younger boy – Spot led the group across the bridge and into a harbor-side tavern.

Though the frosted windows of _The Red Sails_ were inviting, the inside was significantly less so. It was enough to get David through the door, and getting him to order a drink was out of the question. But Spot would not trust bad news any closer to home than the corner booth where they now resided – especially if Racetrack was involved – and he knew his friend appreciated the relative privacy.

Jack leaned his elbows on the table and began to speak when Spot interrupted him. "Didn'cha muddah never teach ya no manners, Cowboy? We ain't even got a drink and ya already openin' ya fat mouth. Now, let's get a beer, cause it looks tah me like Higgins heah could use one, _den_ we can tawk business."

Racetrack, however, bypassed the beer for something a little stronger and ordered whiskey. Spot laughed despite his concern at the heavy look in Racetrack's eyes and handed the waitress a few coins. The boys sat in silence until the young woman came back with a beer for Jack, a soda water for David, and two glasses of amber-colored liquor for Race and Spot. Before the unfortunate waitress could even get all the drinks on the table, Racetrack had snatched and gulped down his own. With a painful grimace and a cough, Racetrack set his glass back on the tray and mumbled for a second.

The waitress frowned at the defeated looking Italian boy, but departed silently. Jack and David said not a word, waiting for Racetrack to begin. With a heavy sigh and a meaningful look at his friend, Racetrack handed over the letter to Spot. It was already smudgy with inky fingertips. Spot took the letter gently and smoothed it flat on the tabletop to read. Though Spot read significantly faster than Racetrack, the dim light and smoke were making visibility difficult and it took him a few minutes to get to the end. The others respectfully kept silent and still. No dark cloud passed over Spot's face as he read, no expression whatsoever except concentration. When he had finished, he kept his eyes glued to the paper for a moment to organize his thoughts. If what he had just read was true, then his best friend had just become a millionaire. And millionaires were not friends with newsboys. This was the only thought that Spot could process for a moment.

When finally he looked up, Racetrack met his eye with a horribly empty expression. This, Jack knew, was why Race had wanted to come to Brooklyn in the first place. The Manhattan boys did not know this side of Race. To them, Race was perpetually laughing, constantly grinning. Brooklyn, and Spot Conlon, were Racetrack's safe haven.

"Whatcha thinkin', Spot?" Race asked, and his look was pleading for some reassurance.

"What're _you_ t'inkin', Race?" Spot countered solemnly.

Race sighed, and out came a good old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness confession of the purest emotion: fear. "Hell, I dunno! If 'dis ain't a joke, it means when I go tah 'dis house dey're gonna give me nice clothes to wear, an' a real fine bed tah sleep in, an' put me in school, an' make me go tah _church_. I ain't gonna be sellin' no more papes, an' I shoah as hell ain't gonna be gamblin' at Sheapshead. Dey ain't gonna call me Racetrack, dey're gonna call me Anthony, and goddamnit, I _hate_ dat name!"

Spot would have laughed had he not known that this outpouring of angry emotion was the closest thing to crying Racetrack could come to, which is what he really felt like doing. So he nodded understandingly instead. Jack and David sat by. It must be noted that Racetrack and Spot's relationship was not like that of most newsboys, one to the other. The respect Jack and Spot shared as leaders, the loyalty and friendship Jack and Racetrack had enjoyed for years, even the brotherly closeness between Racetrack and some of the others like Mush and Kid Blink – none of these bonds could come close to what Racetrack and Spot shared. Jack had watched them grow into it for years, never sure when it had happened or how to explain it. It was like watching somebody and their shadow, or maybe their reflection. What one did, the other did. An action by one led to an immediate reaction by the other. Spot countered Racetrack, Racetrack balanced Spot. The way they understood each other, talked without using words sometimes, it was eerie.

Racetrack's second drink was delivered and Spot looked to Jack for the first time. "I undahstand why ya brought da Mouth," he conceded, immediately letting his business side take over. He knew this is what Racetrack wanted right now – for someone else to take that huge weight of discussion and decision off his shoulders. Spot was more than happy to bear it. "What d'you t'ink, Mouth? Is dis a joke?"

David looked up from his examination of the ice in his glass. "It's not a joke," he asserted, "There's a legitimate lawyer's signature, a stamp by a judge, and a copy of the will of the deceased. Racetrack _has_ inherited this money."

Spot nodded thoughtfully and sipped his drink. The clink of the ice was menacing to David, regardless of the fact that Spot seemed to be accepting his conclusion. "So what's dat mean for Racetrack, now, huh?" Spot asked, shooting a glance across the booth and not letting his voice betray any emotion as he continued: "What's gonna happen tah him?"

David considered. "Well, if he chooses to accept his inheritance he will have to show up at the address like the gentleman told Mush. But the money's not actually his yet, you see. Racetrack won't be eighteen until his birthday in June, and so for the next six months he'd be under legal guardianship."

"Whose?" Spot demanded.

"Whoever his relation appointed. It could be another family member, a servant, a business partner-"

Jack interrupted, "Well, Mush said da guy said it was his old mastah, so it's gotta be a servant."

Spot nodded at Jack's memory and astuteness.

David continued: "I don't think it's a bad idea. Racetrack would be living in a nice house, he'd be comfortable. And in six months the money would all be his to do with as he pleases. I don't see the harm."

Jack and Spot made eye contact, and they knew why David could never understand. Newsies dreamt of nice shoes and warm baths, certainly, but in their fantasies no one was ever going alone. The newsies dreamt of a world where these things were theirs from the beginning, theirs by rights, theirs to keep and share and have as a unit. They dreamt of being born _into_ that world. To transition now, to give up everything he had ever known in exchange for something completely and terrifyingly _unknown_, was a risk even Racetrack didn't know if he could afford to take.

The boys talked back and forth for nearly an hour, with Racetrack sitting silently nursing his fourth drink. When he finally did make a sound, it was only to inform the others he was going out for a smoke. A few seconds after he'd left, Jack was not surprised to hear Spot declare he could use one himself.

"I didn't think Spot smoked," David mused.

"He don't," Jack smiled.

Racetrack was sitting on a crate behind the tavern, puffing away on the ratty end of an old cigar. Spot frowned and offered Race a new one.

"Heah," he suggested, "I been savin' it fah ya."

Race smiled for the first time since that afternoon, when the whole mess of the mystery letter had been dropped on him without warning. Spot ignored the warm look of gratitude and leaned against the wall opposite. "So whatcha t'inkin', Higgins? You gonna go to dat house, or what?"

Race took his time lighting the brand new cigar and savored the flavor before answering. "I think I am, Spot."

Racetrack looked earnestly to Spot for his reaction, but Spot knew he could not betray his thoughts now. If his friend had made his decision then it would certainly not be his place to make him doubt himself. "It's a gamble," he cautioned.

Race nodded, conceding, "An' I don't know da odds."

Both boys sat silent for a moment, the cigar smoke drifting between them.

"Hell," Racetrack breathed, "I gotta take it."

Spot smiled, and it was painful.

But he said, "If you're shoah, den I'm shoah." And that – the promise that Spot would not hate him, could not abandon him – that was all Racetrack had needed. With that promise came the smiles and the jokes and the teasing. Spot told Race the first thing he'd better buy is a couple a' boots with big tall heels so he didn't look like he was twelve; Race swore the first thing he'd buy would be the Brooklyn Bridge from under Spot's feet.

When the two boys reentered the tavern, David was shocked to see the change that had taken place. But Jack smiled and understood. This was why Racetrack had wanted Brooklyn. How ironic that the only newsie in New York that could calm Racetrack down was the one that scared the pants off the rest of them. But that's just the way it was. And as Jack left Brooklyn that night with Raceand David, he considered how _strange_ life was, and how much stranger it was about to become …


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note__: So! I have a few things to say before we begin. First of all, forgive the lack of dialogue in this chapter. I tried to keep it moving along at a brisk pace, but by nature it must be long and explanatory. Also, this was a particularly difficult chapter to write because it strays so far from the typical newsie fic we all love to read, so if you have any criticisms, give 'em to me straight, Doc. Finally, ten points and a high-five to anyone who can tell me where the servants' names all come from (Frith, Poole, Martin, and Ellen Dean) – hint: they are all famous servants themselves. Well, that's that. Please enjoy and review, review, review._

_**Disclaimer**__**: I don't own anything. Nothin' at all.**_

Racetrack stood in front of the house and tried to think of a word. Big? No, it was _way _bigger than big. Expensive? Certainly, but that wasn't enough. Grand? That was a good one. Elegant? Excessive? Daunting? Racetrack sighed …

He was standing on the threshold. He'd left during the night; hadn't said goodbye to a living soul; not even Jack knew he had made up his mind to come. He wasn't big on sentimentality anyhow. But he hadn't yet knocked. There was still time to turn back. Hell, he could probably still make it back before the other boys woke up. No one would be any the wiser, and he could forget about this whole mess. Put it behind him.

In front of him the intimidating wrought iron gates seemed too tall and their points too sharp. The intricately carved wooden doors seemed too thick and the steps leading to them too many. The many shiny windows were too reflective in the streetlamps and they winked at Racetrack, mocking him. They told him to follow them up, up, up the stories of the mansion and look to the chimney billowing smoke from a cozy parlor fire, to the balcony off the master bedroom on the third floor, to the weather-cock perched precariously atop it all.

The mansion was set apart from the city center. It had its own lawn, its own garden in back. It had his _name_ written there on the stone above the main entrance: Higgins Estate. That was certainly a little unsettling …

Racetrack took a deep breath, scratched his head, and rang the bell before he could change his mind. _Dat's it_, he thought fatally, _I'm doomed_.

It was only a moment before a tall, slim man in a ridiculous bathrobe was standing on the steps. Seeing Racetrack, he began scolding immediately: "You young hooligan, have you any _idea_ of the time? How dare you wake a respectable household in the middle of the night! Remove yourself from the premises immediately. I'll call the police, I'll call them right this instant!"

Racetrack panicked. The soles of his feet were itching, and he nearly made a dash for it, straight back to the Lodging House. He never would know what made him hold his ground. But before the man could reenter the mansion, he held the letter through the iron bars as a peace offering. "Uh, I got 'dis lettah?"

_Those_ were the magic words. Before he could say "open sesame" the man in the striped bathrobe was at the gate and fumbling with an enormous ring of brass keys. "Mr. Higgins," he said, and his voice was suddenly full to the brim with pomp and consequence, "Mr. Higgins, forgive my insolence. I hadn't known whom I was addressing. Please," he said, as he opened the gates wide, "Please enter."

Racetrack followed the man up the steps and into the grand entrance hall. The tiled floor looked too delicate to tread upon and Racetrack wished his shoes were not so very filthy…

"Well," the tall man said, trying his best to retain any semblance of dignity while so obviously uncomfortable in his pajamas. "I must admit I hadn't expected you, sir, quite so late, or you may be assured I would have been dressed and prepared to welcome you properly. But no matter. Please let me escort you to the sitting room and I will have Ellen up to start some tea."

Racetrack said nothing.

Uncomfortable, the man coughed and asked: "Or perhaps you prefer coffee? I apologize. I will have both prepared."

Racetrack let himself be led into the "sitting room" – bigger than the entirety of the Lodging House, surely. There were couches of the finest fabrics, pillows decorated with golden thread, portraits of those long dead adorning the walls, and an elegant baby grand in the corner. Before he could turn around, Racetrack noticed the man had gone. There was no time to collect his thoughts, however, for before he could exhale, all the lights in the house were being lit. There were footsteps on the stairs, echoes of excited voices down the halls, the sounds of hurried dressing and a distinct clank of a teapot being put to boil.

In moments the man in the bathrobe was standing before him, now dressed smartly in a suit and bowtie. He looked thoroughly relieved to be out of his robe. Following the man came three other servants. One old woman with an ample middle surrounded by a maid's apron. One young boy with curly hair and sleepy eyes. And a young maid with sleek blond hair all pulled tightly back into a bun.

"Mr Higgins," the slim man addressed him, "May I present your staff? I am the head butler and your predecessor's primary caretaker. You may call me Frith. This is Mrs. Poole" (to the older maid), "Martin" (the young boy), "and Ellen Dean" (the young maid). "I do hope we will prove worthy to be in your service, Mr. Higgins." The quartet then bowed in unison – though Martin was a little late.

"Have you any luggage I might take for you, sir?" asked Mrs. Poole.

Racetrack shrugged self-consciously. "Uh," he mumbled, "I ain't got nothin', sorry…"

Mrs. Poole tipped her head courteously and followed Ellen into the kitchen to finish making tea. Martin took up residence in a corner of the room, but Frith shook his hand at the boy: "Thank you Martin, but we will not be requiring anything of you at present. You may retire." Martin, who looked as if Christmas had come early, hurried out of the room to his warm bed once more.

"Now, Mr. Higgins, I am certain you will have some questions for me …"

When Racetrack retired for the evening – or, more accurately, for the morning, as the sun was just coming up when he laid down his head – he could not seem to make sense of anything. All those questions he'd had were promptly and painstakingly answered by his new butler, Frith. And yet, while the answers made sense – fit into the timeline of his life – he could not seem to make them apply to himself. The story Frith had told him had been a fairytale.

A fairytale of a brother and a sister, orphaned early. They had parted ways. The brother had made his fortune in the south. The sister had done what any young girl abandoned must do... Years passed and the brother and sister fell out of touch.

When the brother returned to New York he built up his estate, invested his money and made more money. He never married. When finally he decided to track down his long lost sister he found a once-beautiful woman with a son not yet five years old. This son, of course, was Anthony Higgins. And when Frith described the way in which his old master would go to the Higgins shanty every Sunday morning and beg his sister to let him take the boy and raise him to a better life, Racetrack remembered these things. He remembered the man in the maroon vest with the shiny pocket watch who used to bring him toys and sweets on Sunday afternoons. He remembered his mother fighting with the man and taking back all the treats he'd given Racetrack. What Racetrack hadn't known at the time was that the man had been family, had been his uncle.

But his mother had been proud – she'd also been abandoned by this brother once already, and would not allow a man who was now completely unknown to her take her child away.

Racetrack remembered the day of his seventh birthday when his mother had left him with the nuns at the Convent of the Sacred Heart. That was one question, at least, that had been given a satisfactory answer – his mother had not abandoned him because she didn't love him, she'd abandoned him to keep him away from his uncle. A satisfactory answer maybe, but not a very good one. Racetrack couldn't think who to be more mad at – the stuffy uncle who'd tried to bribe him away from his mother, or the mother who would not let him be bribed away from her.

Frith had detailed the search that his master had undertaken to find his long lost nephew. But, of course, there were far too many rootless boys on the streets of Manhattan to find any one in particular. The first lead he'd gotten had been that picture of the newsies in the paper from the strike last year. Racetrack's uncle had tracked down Denton to get more information. He had spent months investigating.

The fairytale ended rather tragically. The orphan was located, but his uncle suffered an untimely death when the influenza had taken him that fall. The faithful servant, however, had followed his old master's orders just as they had been laid out in his will. Frith's former master had given detailed instructions: go to the Lodging House, obtain the boy, bring him back to the estate, raise him to the life of a gentleman – the life he should have enjoyed from early boyhood. And one other command that Frith knew would take a little more persuasion than just getting a street urchin to accept a large fortune. This last, therefore, Frith did not immediately share with his new master. He kept a copy of his old master's will in his file and planned to broach the subject one day. But as Racetrack lay down to sleep that night, the last request of his uncle remained completely unknown to him – the poor newsie had no idea his newfound fortune had come with conditions.

If Racetrack did not sleep well during the few hours he was in bed that morning, it was not surprising. For starters, the bed itself was intolerably soft. With all the feathers stuffed into the mattress, it was rather like sleeping on air. There were _way_ too many pillows, and the quilt kept him quite warm. Aside from these obvious discomforts, there was the fact that Racetrack had his very own room. A huge king size bed, all to himself, and no one tossing and turning on a bunk above him. No snoring or sleep talking from the other boys. No smell of mold or smoke or anything unpleasant whatsoever. It was foreign, and unendurable.

It was nine o'clock in the morning, precisely, when Mrs. Poole whisked into his bedroom and yanked open his curtains. Racetrack sat up hastily, with the swirled remembrances of a fairytale in his sleepy brain. It is not surprising that, despite Racetrack's poor sleep, he was still a little disoriented upon awakening and rather unsure where he was for a moment or two.

"Good morning, sir," Mrs. Poole greeted briskly. She stood at the foot of his bed, her hands folded over her wide midsection. "I allowed you a few hours of extra sleep on account of your coming to us so late last evening. But rest assured, beginning tomorrow, I will never fail to wake you promptly at seven o'clock."

Racetrack nodded dreamily. That wouldn't be so bad – he was used to getting up with the sun.

"And what would the master like to break his fast this morning?"

"Uh … whatevah ya got. Don't make no trouble."

Mrs. Poole cocked an eyebrow. _Doesn't sound much like a gentleman_, the woman thought to herself, _but Frith will just have to see to that – my concern is to keep the young master well dressed and well fed_.

"As you wish, sir," Mrs. Poole answered curtly, "I have pulled your clothes for today. You will find them in the master bath."

"Where's dat?" Racetrack inquired boldly.

Mrs. Poole walked across the room and opened what Race had thought to be a closet door rather pointedly.

"Oh … ah, thanks ma'am."

Fifteen minutes later and Racetrack was sitting in the dining room at the head of a long oak dining table all by himself. Mrs. Poole had brought in eggs and pancakes, toast and jam, coffee, tea, biscuits, and bacon. Then she had left. His only company now was young Martin, who was standing in a corner trying to pick something out of his ear without being noticed by his new master.

"Hey kid," Race hissed, thoroughly more comfortable in the presence of this young rascal than his other stuffy servants. "C'mere."

Martin looked terrified for a moment, fearing he'd been caught, and he approached Racetrack's chair cautiously. He remembered only too well how harsh the old master had been. "Sir?"

"Whatcha doin' just standin' dere? Ya makin' me noivous."

"Sir?" Martin looked confused.

"Ya can sit down and eat some breakfast wid me, kid, but ya look like an idiot just standin' around in da cornah."

Martin looked uncertain, but his eyes alighted on the piles of piping hot food laid upon the table. He would have accepted Racetrack's offer had not Frith entered at that very moment.

"Martin," he cautioned dangerously, "Must I remind you that you are a servant to Mr. Higgins, and not his guest? Resume your post, lad."

Martin was back in his corner before Racetrack could wink, and Frith took up residence at the other end of the long dining table. "You mustn't fraternize with the help, Mr. Higgins, if you wish them to maintain any level of respect for you."

Racetrack bristled a little at that, but he would not yet cross such a daunting figure.

"Da kid just looked hungry …"

Frith walked along the table towards Racetrack with long, leisurely strides and motioned towards the chair next to him. "May I?"

Racetrack nodded and Frith sat down beside him.

"Sir, I believe this would be a good time to inform you of the rules and responsibilities of your new position."

As Racetrack did not object, Frith continued with what sounded like a practiced speech for this very occasion.

"Mr. Higgins, while it is unfortunate that you came to assume your position rather later in life than the old master had intended, it is my belief that you are not beyond redemption. You may yet become one of the finest gentlemen in Manhattan, perhaps even as great as that of your predecessor. However, it is of the utmost importance that you heed my advice from this moment forward – you must do exactly as I instruct. Your days will be very full, Mr. Higgins, with lessons. Mrs. Poole and I have arranged for several tutors. You will learn how to dress, speak, and conduct yourself like a gentleman. You will be well versed in literature, music, and proper societal behavior. It is my greatest wish, as it was my master's, that by your eighteenth birthday you will be able to be presented to society as the rightful and worthy heir of the distinguished Mr. Higgins Sr."

Racetrack swallowed a heavy mouthful of pancakes. Perhaps he had been naïve, perhaps just plain stupid, but he didn't think he'd signed on for all of _that_. Frith sensed his uncertainty.

"I understand you have been accustomed to a very different way of life, Mr. Higgins, and it is unfortunate that you were not raised here as your uncle had intended. But you are here now, and you have made the right decision. I must ask you, sir, to refrain from making contact with anyone from your former life," Frith said this with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "You have a new life now, and you will be happy here. Sir."

Racetrack sat and stared at Frith and wondered for a moment who was really master in this relationship.

Everything had just hit him like a sack of potatoes, as Mush used to say. The reality of his situation. Doomed indeed. Racetrack chuckled darkly to himself as he realized that money certainly came at a high cost. He nodded grimly.

"I'm glad we understand one another," Frith stood, "Today I will have Ellen show you around your new home. Tomorrow your training begins."


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note__: So, I do offer my sincerest apologies for the delay on this chapter but alas, I was on vacation with no Internet whatsoever. Not much to say other than the next chapter should be up pretty quick considering I have most of it written already. I hope you enjoy, and please review – a special thanks to those of you who have been consistent and helpful in your reviews, you know who you are : )_

_**Disclaimer**__**: All I own is "the help".**_

* * *

Racetrack left the breakfast table feeling none too reassured about his new position in life. Pushing the distinct feeling that he'd somehow been duped to the back of his mind, he decided in his too-optimistic way to see how things went for the first few days of his new life. If things got hairy he'd simply make a break for it. He was a newsie after all, and newsies were quite good at running away.

Thus it came to pass that the new master of the estate spent a rather pleasant afternoon having his fears soothed by the deceptively charming young Ellen Dean. It didn't take long for the two to become rather chummy – Ellen was not nearly so intimidating as Frith or Mrs. Poole. Having been born and raised not far from the Brooklyn Lodging House, the girl had spent most of her life under conditions to which Racetrack could relate. Her parents were rather poor, and she had worked in a textile factory prior to her lucky break when the old master had hired her for a maid position. She laughed at Racetrack's vulgar jokes (though not so loudly that her betters downstairs might hear her), and she giggled adorably when Racetrack showed her card tricks and simple disappearing-coin sleights of hand. In turn, Racetrack found himself more than grateful to find someone in the house with whom he could converse comfortably. He even granted the girl her own newsie name. While they were discussing the girl's time at the factory, Ellen held up both her hands shyly, "It's where I lost these," she admitted and Racetrack stared in morbid fascination as he discovered that Ellen was missing not one, not two, but _three _of her fingers. There was much laughter when Ellen realized that rather than being appalled, her new friend was speechless with admiration, and from then on Racetrack dubbed her "Ellen Seven".

The two were making their way through the library when Racetrack allowed himself a more serious thought, and he shared it with Ellen. "Ya think it'll be hard, them makin' me a gentleman?"

Ellen shrugged. "I think it can't be so hard if the old master could have done it. He weren't no better off than you when he started, right?"

Racetrack had not thought of that. "Maybe," he conceded, "but I only evah knowed how tah be a newsie. All dis schoolin' and learnin', I dunno, dat's a lot tah handle in only six months."

"You'll learn quick," Ellen comforted, "All these rich people, they make a great show, but really I think it's much harder to live like we lived than to just walk around in nice clothes and have dinner parties and hold your nose so high in the air all the time."

It was then that Frith appeared from behind a bookshelf and startled them both so frightfully that Ellen's heart nearly stopped. "How are you enjoyed the tour, Mr. Higgins? I hope you are finding everything to your liking." His words were civil, but the warning glace he shot in Ellen's direction clearly indicated that he had heard her criticisms.

Racetrack felt his face grow hot in her defense. "It's alright," he said carelessly, knowing it would insult his new butler. "Ellen's real good at explainin' everythin', though. She seems tah know everythin' about dis place." It was a simple comment, but enough to let Frith know that Racetrack agreed with Ellen's former statement; enough to let Frith know whose side Racetrack was taking.

Frith looked from one to the other of the young people. "I see," he said serenely. "Carry on." And then he was gone. And Racetrack felt in the marrow of his bones that Frith's cool departure was more deadly than if he had scolded Ellen openly for her words.

They were silent for a moment, and then Ellen said, "That was kind of you."

Racetrack was about to accept her thanks when she continued: "But very foolish."

* * *

The following weeks passed in a rather tedious manner. Every minute of every day was tightly scheduled. As promised, Mrs. Poole never failed to wake the former newsie at seven a.m. Racetrack dressed and dined early. At eight o'clock Racetrack's schooling began with lessons in literature, geography, philosophy, and mathematics. Lunch was served at one o'clock, with an hour afterwards for recreation (it was during this hour that Racetrack would take advantage of the company of young Martin and the two would wander about the chilly winter garden swapping jokes and stories). Racetrack's favorite and least favorite classes took place after recreation hour. His favorite came first, at three o'clock. This was music. Now Racetrack had never heard any music other than the raucous noise coming from Irving Hall. The music they played him during his lessons was much more beautiful. Pianos and violins, and the mellow cello that sounded like the voice of a long-lost friend. His least favorite class came at four o'clock when Frith personally monitored Racetrack's dialect lessons. For two hours before dinner Racetrack was forced to repeat various phrases and sounds until he could speak "properly". Specific emphasis was given to Race's "th" sound, and he lost count of how many times he was forced to repeat words like "those", "them", "this". He got his knuckles rapped any time he dared to say "ain't", " or left off the "g" at the end of words like "nothing". Racetrack had never really noticed how different he sounded from others before, perhaps because he had been so submersed in his own subculture. But he found it quite wearying and almost depressing to be constantly told that he was a ruffian whom no one would ever understand "in the real world".

Finally dinner came at six o'clock. At seven the entire household attended an hour of mass delivered by the Higgins' family's personal parish priest. Racetrack was not left to his own devices until eight o'clock, when he usually met Ellen in the sitting room and the two would play cards or occasionally Ellen would read to him, until ten o'clock when Mrs. Poole came to fetch Racetrack and escort him to bath and bed.

It wasn't until the end of Racetrack's third week that he even had time to wonder if the life he had chosen was really the life he wanted. He found himself pondering these things as he sat alone in his room one Sunday afternoon. Sunday was Racetrack's only day off. Saturdays the boy was exempt from regular lessons only to be driven out to the stables where Racetrack discovered he was the proud owner of three thoroughbred stallions. Riding lessons were had under the watchful eye of Frith, per usual, but Martin was allowed to tag along and while Racetrack didn't particularly enjoy learning to ride, it appeared to be Martin's greatest joy.

But Sundays, those were the days that Racetrack had fully to himself. Often he would breakfast in his bedroom and lie there all afternoon, only emerging in the evening to take a walk with Ellen and discuss his week with her. It was reassuring after those long weeks to joke with Ellen and have her pat him on the back in her simple way and say: "It will get easier, I'm sure, Anthony."

Her habit of calling him by his first name when they were in private was something that had unsettled Racetrack at first, until he realized that it was better than the alternatives. If she had called him "Mr. Higgins" like the other servants did, it would have put a distance between them. But she could never call him "Racetrack", of course. It impressed him how Ellen had sensed these things all on her own. Despite the fact that she was almost six years his senior, Ellen had a playfulness and a way of letting Racetrack know that she was rooting for him that Racetrack didn't think he could have done without.

That third Sunday he was sitting on his bed with a book open on his stomach that he was not reading. It was a strange thought that came to him then. Out of nowhere, he wondered about a headline he had been selling the day he'd come home to the letter from Frith. There had been a politician on trial for fraud – nothing that would have made front page news in New York – but for some reason the story stuck in Racetrack's head. He wondered now if the politician had been charged, and it shocked Racetrack to realize that he had not seen a newspaper in three weeks. Although it seemed impossible, this was the _first_ time Racetrack gave a thought to his former life. The strict routine of sleep, lessons, and meals had swept him up and left no room for what had formerly been important to him. Sitting up in bed and swinging his legs over the side, Racetrack now wondered with a pang of guilt what Jack and the boys had thought when they'd woken to discover him gone. He wondered how long it had taken them to confess the news to Spot that he was not coming back and whether or not Spot had already known, in that eerie way Spot seemed to sense everything about Racetrack. He wondered how the boys had celebrated Crutchy's birthday, which was only a few days past, and how Les' broken arm was healing. He wondered a lot of random thoughts, but they all brought tears to his eyes.

Before he could change his mind, Racetrack stood and walked to his writing desk. He scrawled a quick few words on a scrap of paper and tucked it in his vest pocket. He found Martin in the kitchen, bothering Mrs. Poole for leftovers from desert.

"Mr. Higgins," the broad old woman exclaimed, "I didn't expect to see you down here so soon after dinner. Is there anything I can get you? Martin will bring it right up."

"Yes," Racetrack tried to sound authoritative, "Can I get a cup a' coffee and somethin' sweet, whatevah ya got."

Mrs. Poole frowned, "I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't quite understand."

Racetrack rolled his eyes, but his mission was far too important to forfeit quibbling over his accent. "Sorry, some coffee and somet_hing_ sweet, maybe some of your cookies, please."

"Ah, of course. Nip back upstairs and Martin will be up shortly."

Racetrack returned to his room and sat down to wait. When Martin entered, Racetrack closed the door behind him. "Kid, ya wanna do me a favor?"

Martin looked skeptical. "Look," Racetrack bribed, "I'll give ya 'dese cookies if ya help me out. It's easy, I promise."

Suddenly the young lad was much more accommodating.

"I need ya tah get ta Manhattan and buy me a papah."

* * *

_A/N: Ah yes, the plot thickens. Please review, and chapter six shall be posted shortly._


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: My sincerest apologies on the six-month-long chapter update. I have no excuse for myself, so I suppose I will just have to hope for your forgiveness and say that I will try not to do it again. I hope you have not lost interest, as I certainly haven't. Good news, however: I'm on break right now and hopefully will be able to squeeze out another chapter or two before I go back to school. _

**_Disclaimer: None of its mine._**

Winter was not offering the boys of Kloppman's Lodging House any relief from its wrath and Mush, for one, was not having it.

"It ain't fair," he complained to Blink one frigid afternoon, looking in at the windows of the well-to-do. "Dey can sit inside with their fires an' their hot dinnah's, an' we ain't got so much as a solid pair a' boots tah share between us."

Blink could say nothing, for he knew his friend was right. Their days had been brutal, their nights worse; and although no one would say it, they had all been thoroughly demoralized by Racetrack's sudden disappearance. Many a night had the Manhattan boys sat in pubs and discussed the likelihood of such a break coming their way, and each one had sworn up and down that he'd never leave, while his brothers assured him that if he didn't, they'd kick him out. It was never serious, however, because it was never reality. Now that the abstract had become alarmingly concrete, every boy could say with certainty that while they'd force a fellow newsie to cash in on his good fortune, it hurt that Racetrack had done just that

The collection of newsies housed beneath Kloppman's roof was, after all, rather special. Of course some boys came and went, but those who had been there longest, and especially those who had stood together and defeated the World, all had a special bond. Something didn't feel quite like it fit, after Racetrack's disappearance. As Crutchy so poignantly put it: it was like someone had taken the purple out of the rainbow.

So Mush and Blink commiserated in companionable silence, scrunching their toes inside their holey shoes for warmth and watching the snow pile onto the snow that was already there, frozen and ice hard and no longer seasonably festive.

On the other side of town, Jack Kelly was commiserating with Spot Conlon. The pair had decided to shirk their responsibilities and sit in Central Park, passing a bottle between them. Their bottoms were cold upon the bench but the liquor was warming the rest of them. It was still quite early, and yet our boys were well on their way to becoming rather drunk. It was at this moment that a young boy, no more than twelve, came to cross their paths, with a pitifully terrified expression upon his face. Poor Martin, you see, had not been in the city for many years, having been cooped up within the walls of Higgins Estate, undergoing his training. Unfortunately for him, Spot Conlon was not a warm-hearted sort of a fellow and the Brooklynite's first thought upon spying the boy was to enliven his afternoon with some harmless harassment. Said harassment came in the form of three perfectly aimed shooters, striking Martin's left shoulder, right ear, and left shoe in quick succession.

Thus was Martin, the butler-in-training, painfully introduced to the one person in New York he'd probably have been better off never having met at all. Jack magnanimously managed to stifle his laughter long enough to ask if the boy was lost.

"No sir," said Martin with his eyes on Spot's slingshot, "I'm looking for someone."

"Well," said Spot brutishly, "Ya tawkin' tah kings right now, m'boy, and we knows just about everybody dere is tah know in dis town. So tell me. Who ya' lookin' fah?"

"Jack," Martin stammered, "Jack Kelly."

Jack raised his eyebrows, but before he could say anything, Spot smirked and pounded his chest. "Why, dat's me! What have you got tah say tah me, huh?"

Martin's respect for his new master increased significantly at the knowledge that Mr. Higgins counted among his acquaintances such intimidating figures as this. He held out a trembling hand, clasped in which were two items: a folded up bit of scratch paper, and a shiny penny. "The – the penny's for a newspaper, and the note is for you… sir."

Spot took the paper but shook his head at the coin. "Kid, I ain't sellin' tahday. But if ya go down tah dat corner, just dere," and he pointed, "tell dat dark coily-haired kid to give ya a pape. Keep ya penny and tell him Spot Conlon said ya get da pape free of charge. Ya got dat?"

"Who's Spot Conlon?" Martin asked sagely.

Jack – that is to say, the real Jack – laughed gaily at this, but the Brooklyn king shoved Martin on his way and said: "Nevah you mind."

Once Martin had departed, Jack reached out for the note, believing Spot's antics all to be in good humor. But Spot held back. He may have been half Jack's size, but he was twice as bright and his intuition three times as keen. He knew exactly whose hand had penned the note; indeed Jack's name written in that familiar handwriting on the front only confirmed Spot's already formed suspicions. This note was Racetrack's first attempt at contacting those from his former life. Spot would be damned if Jack read those words before he did – little matter to whom the note was actually addressed.

Spot fended off Jack's outstretched hand. "Hey hey," he said, "Not so fast, huh? Finder's keeper's, and all dat…"

Jack frowned.

"Hey, how 'bout 'dis, huh? You can pay me for it. One dollah."

Jack's exasperation was visible upon his face.

"Yeah," Spot continued, "One dollah an' you got yourself one bea-_u_-tiful little note. Dat's fair."

"Spot, c'mon."

_Well_, Spot thought, _if he ain't gonna do it easy, we're gonna have to do it hard_.

"Of course," he said, standing, "Ya could fight me foah it."

Jack watched Spot's fingers twitch near the handle of his golden-tipped cane, and grimaced.

Now, as we have previously discussed – and I'm sure you've been astute enough to notice, dear readers – Jack was a little drunk. He was a little drunk and a little cold, and he happened to know his friend very well. Often was Spot taken by such outrageous whims as this. Jack supposed it was part of being king. One must demand and have those demands met – no matter how extreme or silly – and every once in a while Spot would demand something utterly ridiculous just to see who would prove accommodating. Anyhow, if the note were something truly important, it would have been sent by one of Jack's own messengers, not some schoolboy half-scared of his own shadow.

So while his curiosity was piqued, Jack decided – and wisely, I am sure – that it would be better to let Spot have his way. Chances were Spot would come around sooner rather than later and show Jack his note anyway.

"Fine, Spot," he said, and left for home.

The easy camaraderie and silly drunkenness of the afternoon were lost after the confrontation, but Spot couldn't have cared less. He waited until Jack was out of sight, crept a little further into the shadows, and unfolded the note. The paper was clean and the penmanship a little neater than he'd remembered, but it couldn't fool Spot. It even smelled like Race.

_Jack-_

_Sorry I beat it so fast._

_You won't believe this place._

_We gotta talk._

_Come home with Martin, I'll wait at the gate._

_Race._

Spot hadn't even finished the letter before stuffing it in his pocket and running off in the direction he'd sent the young servant. He came upon Mush's selling spot all in a rage. He tried to calm himself so that Mush wouldn't tip Jack off that something was up.

Mush pointed him in the right direction and Spot was off, pushing past pedestrians and other newsies, leaving many a bewildered and insulted individual in his wake. Finally he caught sight of Martin and sprinted to catch up.

"Kid!" he shouted.

Martin turned around and saw the look on Spot's face. It was resolve, but one cannot blame poor Martin for mistaking it for murderous rage. Spot's features generally tend to cast his expressions at least two shades more malicious than they are originally intended.

Martin took off as fast as he could, but his domesticity could not compete with Spot's determination, and Spot was upon him almost instantly. He tackled the child in one easy leap and Martin instantly lost all his fight.

He rolled over and raised his hands in front of his eyes, "Mr. Kelly!" he cried, "Oh please, Mr. Kelly! I don't know what my master wrote in the note, but I knew nothing of it! Please, please sir, don't hurt me, I'm surely not to blame!"

Spot gave Martin one good punch merely to vent his frustration and waited while the unfortunate boy cried it out. When he had finished, Spot pulled him to his feet and directed: "Let's go. Da note said tah take me back, ya snivelin' good-fah-nothin' little wankah."

Martin trembled, but what could he do? Poor fellow.

He led Spot along, tilting his head back to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. Spot would have much preferred to move faster, but his conscience pricked ever so slightly as he watched Martin limp ahead in front of him. Spot did not enjoy feeling guilty, and so he avoided looking at Martin as much as possible. Instead he watched as the scenery changed around him. The dirty streets and bustle, the evening crowds of the city were giving way to neat, narrow alleys where prim little buggies drove past at a leisurely pace.

When they arrived finally at the Higgins Estate, dusk had fallen. A figure was leaning against the wrought-iron gates, and while it looked slightly off without a cigar or a cap, Spot could tell just from its posture that it was Racetrack.

Three weeks and not a word. Spot wanted to soak the bum. He wanted to take him by the collar and bash his head against the gate and tell him it was one thing to go off and enjoy his new life, but it was a whole other thing to do so while completely forgetting all his old friends.

Martin fled the scene without a word and brooded past Race to get inside. Racetrack took one look at him and turned to face the other individual. The look on his face was not hard to read – which is, of course, why Racetrack made such a truly terrible poker player.

Spot chuckled smugly, all his anger evaporating like his hot breath on the winter air. "Ya missed me, Higgins? Ya doe-eyed Nancy …"


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note:__ I told you I'd be quick with this one! Indeed, the last chapter was more a show of good faith than anything. I know it wasn't very eventful, but I am very proud of this chapter and I think you will like it much more. This is also the last chapter of relative good cheer – it will all get terribly dark and depressing from here on out. But fear not, I promise a happy ending. Enjoy, and please review!_

_**Disclaimer:**__** The Newsies all belong to Disney – they could not even spare one for me to have for my very own. How sad.**_

Our magnanimous readers will forgive us if we fail to record the reunion of our two young newsies. It is a certain fact that boys of their position in the world, and these two boys in particular, were very careful about masking their emotions – indeed, there were those of the opinion that Spot Conlon, at least, had no emotions whatsoever. Therefore, not wishing to disappoint those faithful readers craving a tearful and affecting scene between the best friends, suffice it to say there was much shoving, boorish name-calling, and merciless teasing.

When finally the two had exhausted their fond endearments, Racetrack asked, "So Jack didn't wanna come hisself, or what?"

Spot felt the welling up of familiar guilt and immediately quashed it with a wicked grin, "Eh, don't you worry about Jacky-boy. I gotcha note, an' I'm the one dat came. You disappointed, Higgins?"

Racetrack smiled, "A' course not, Spot, but how the hell did _you_ get da note, and what da hell did ya do tah Martin tah get it? Ya soaked da kid pretty good by da looks a' him."

Spot shrugged, "He's a right lousy little shrimp – I hardly touched him. Took one hit and an' started bawlin'. Dat ain't my fault."

Racetrack frowned. "It ain't _his_ fault, ya know. Dat poor kid's been stuck in dis place a damn long time."

In a most characteristic manner, Spot's eyebrows creased. He thought a moment about accusing his friend of having gone soft, but refrained and decided instead to commiserate – "Dat bad, huh?"

Racetrack shrugged, suddenly unwilling to divulge too many details concerning his new home. He couldn't say for certain why, but he thought Spot would make fun, would think him weak or silly or stupid. Perhaps he was simply afraid Spot would not want to be his friend anymore after learning that Racetrack had gone three long weeks without thinking of him once.

"Well, c'mon den, show me da place, huh?" Spot consoled. He could sense Racetrack's hesitation and it worried him. There had never been silences between them before, and certainly not the uncomfortable kind.

"Alright," Racetrack cautioned, "but I can only show ya through da soivant's way in da back. I'll be in a whole heap a trouble if Frith wakes up and finds me trailin' a doity street rat through his nice house."

Spot, contrary to taking offense to this, smiled arrogantly. Then he asked about Frith, and while Racetrack led him circuitously around to the back entrance he listened to a cataloguing of the different characters housed within the Higgins mansion: the terrifyingly authoritative Frith with his bony fingers and his bald spot; plump Mrs. Poole who was kind but very strict, especially concerning meal times and well-ironed trouser creases; Martin, of whom Spot had already formed his own opinions; and Ellen Seven, who Racetrack described using the highest words of praise, with her wispy blond hair and her friendly smile and her aptitude at cards.

It was easier talking to Spot this way, with Spot trailing behind him where he didn't have to see his expressions.

When they finally came around to the back of the house, Racetrack turned around and gestured unnecessarily for silence. Spot nodded grimly, and the two crept together into the elegant kitchen, up the back stair, and down the grand hall to the master bedroom. Racetrack was a little unsettled to find that while Spot could still slink completely noiselessly, he himself seemed to have lost that ability and every step seemed distressingly noisy next to Spot's silent ones.

Once inside, Racetrack closed the door and turned to find his friend surveying the room with his mouth hanging wide. While Racetrack could almost always tell what Spot was thinking, it was never because Spot betrayed his thoughts by his facial expression – in fact, Spot was deadly careful to keep a straight face at all times and in all circumstances. However, as he took in the grand bed with its lavish coverings and the master bathroom connected – all porcelain and polished brass – it was all he could do to mumble a week, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph …"

Racetrack smiled, feeling something almost like pride at Spot's admiration. He leaned back against the bedframe self-importantly, "So, ya think da guys'll like livin' heah?" he joked.

Spot rounded on him with a huge grin, "You lucky sonuvva bitch – how da hell did you manage dis!"

The two engaged in a few moments' good-natured banter, and then Racetrack asked, "So what d'ya wanna do? If we can keep quiet enough, da house is ours till around five in da mornin'. I can get ya somethin' tah eat, or take ya on a tour, or sneak Mrs. Poole's wine from da kitchen …"

But Spot, simple creature, had eyes for only one item, and that was the enormous claw-footed bathtub. So Racetrack filled it with generous amounts of boiling water, as he had often watched Mrs. Poole do, and laid out an extra dressing robe for Spot beside the sink.

While he waited for Spot to finish his bath, Racetrack laid back on his bed with his hands behind his head. While it was certainly wonderful to have his best friend back, it was indeed odd having him _here_. It was not unpleasant, per say, merely a little uncomfortable. His two lives, which formerly had no knowledge whatever of each other, had suddenly and violently collided. He wondered idly if things could go on this way – if he could continue his gentleman training during the day and sneak his friends in the back gate at night. If he could be Anthony Higgins, master esquire of Higgins mansion, and Racetrack the newsie, both at the same time. Certainly it would be much harder and a little confusing to keep up his dialect lessons…

When Spot emerged, Racetrack was a little confused to see him back in his dirty clothes. "Spot, I left –"

"Yeah yeah," Spot interrupted, "I don't wanna look all fruity like you do in dat get-up. Don't worry about it."

And Racetrack found he admired Spot all the more for this decision – for indeed it had nothing at all to do with looking "fruity". Spot, in all his prideful majesty, would bathe in the tubs of the rich, he would later eat the food of the rich and drink their wine, yet he would not change himself. He could enjoy the blessings offered him but not at the price of his identity. Racetrack wondered then if Spot had been in his shoes, would he have made a different choice? And Racetrack knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that, yes, Spot would be a newsie – and a king – for life. He would have told Frith to beat it.

"So how's about that wine?"

Racetrack was tiptoeing down the stairs when he heard someone tiptoeing up the stairs. He held his breath and hid himself behind a decorative curtain, hoping the darkness would conceal what would have been comically obvious in the daylight. Sure enough, the late-night wanderer passed him without a sound. Racetrack crept from his hiding place and continued his descent to the kitchen. It was Ellen's small scream that sent him dashing back, bottle in hand.

When he reached his bedroom he found that Spot had thoroughly, if roughly, taken control of the situation. Ellen was backed into a corner, hand to her heart in a typically feminine gesture of alarm, with Spot brandishing his cane at her, keeping her rooted to the spot in terror.

"Hey!" Racetrack called as loudly as the circumstances would allow, "Spot, it's alright, back off. She ain't gonna do nothin'."

Spot looked back and forth between the two and lowered his cane, albeit slowly.

"Ellen," Racetrack tried to sound soothing, "I'm sorry Ellen, come sit on da bed, huh? He ain't gonna hoit ya. Dis is me friend."

Ellen allowed herself to be guided to the bed, and Racetrack poured her a glass of wine at the tray beside his nightstand.

No one quite knew what to say then, and both boys were shocked when Ellen was the first to break the awkward silence. She had finished her wine at a gulp – earning a grudging respect from Spot – and scolded: "If you're going to have friends over, Anthony, you might warn me first."

"An' if you'se gonna go creepin' intah me room in da middle of da night, ya might warn _me_ foist," Racetrack countered.

Ellen smiled, but shook her head. "You _must_ sleep soundly. Frith has had me checking on you nightly since you arrived."

Racetrack inwardly rebuked himself for not having guessed before that surely Frith would have been having him spied upon. He was grateful, however, that the spy was Ellen, for he knew he had a friend in the strange young maid. He shook his head of the recent almost-disaster and remembered his manners.

"I'm sorry, Ellen, dis heah is Spot Conlon," and he stepped back so the two could shake hands. "You're in luck – dis is perhaps da most famous newsie in all New Yawk. King a' Brooklyn. And Spot, dis is Ellen Seven, da only friend I got fah da last three weeks, master card playah an' brilliant coffee-makah."

Both laughed awkwardly at their grand introductions. Racetrack had been taught recently in his etiquette class that clever gentlemen introduced their friends with clever and flattering personal tidbits.

Spot, all his former fight vanished, kissed Ellen's hand elegantly and declared, "At ya soivace, miss."

Ellen blushed and turned back to Racetrack. "You mustn't go sneaking about the house in the middle of the night – that's the surest way to get yourself caught. If you need something, just ring. I'm always on duty overnight. I can bring you whatever you'd like."

Racetrack smiled, grateful beyond words at Ellen's understand and accommodation.

After another slightly awkward silence, Ellen rose and dismissed herself with a final warning: "Make sure Mr. Conlon is gone by the five o'clock bell. Mrs. Poole makes her rounds at that time. And I'm afraid if he wishes to come back, he must do so tomorrow evening. Frith and Martin conduct a thorough examination of the house and grounds daily – it would not do for Mr. Conlon to be skulking about somewhere in the shadows and be caught by them."

When she had gone, Racetrack repossessed the wine and took a swig from the bottle. Both boys let out a sigh of relief, and then Spot cocked an eyebrow. "So what, you'se in love wid her or somethin'?"

Racetrack choked on his wine. Indeed, he'd never even thought of Ellen that way. "Ellen?" he coughed, "Gee, I guess she's pretty enough, but-"

"Pretty enough?" Spot countered, "She's a stunnah."

Racetrack thought about it. Indeed, Ellen was slim and her hair looked soft and her eyes were quite brilliant, especially when they took their walks in the sunset light. She also had that charming mix of street smarts and lady manners that made her equally accessible to both of his lives – newsie and gentleman. And yet … no, Racetrack didn't think he could ever love Ellen in that way. He had never been girl crazy like his friends – even Spot managed a steady stream of beautiful if impersonal lady friends. Racetrack had always been content with his friends only, his friends and Spot. He'd never really felt anything to be missing.

Spot was watching Racetrack's face very intently. But when Racetrack just shrugged, Spot let it go with good grace.

The two jumped up upon the bed and Racetrack didn't even mind the dirt Spot's trousers left thereon. They spent the remaining early morning hours in serious laughter and easy catching-up. Spot filled Racetrack in on all he had been wondering about – Crutchy's birthday, Les's broken arm. They even drifted off into a drunken sort of ecstatic doze for an hour or so. It seemed like heaven to have Spot there – to relax this way in such luxury and ease – a few hours escape from the real world.

When he left, promptly at four-thirty in the morning, Spot promised he would come back; perhaps he'd even bring Jack, or at least give the Manhattan leader strict directions so that he might come on his own. The boys figured out a discreet way of meeting – Racetrack would sneak away every evening after the help had gone to bed and wait beside the front gate, as he had met Spot. If he were to have visitors that night, they would arrive promptly between eleven p.m. and midnight. It worked well, and Racetrack found Ellen most accommodating in her service to his crude friends. Whenever he rang, she was there promptly with wine or coffee or little cucumber sandwiches made with love – for indeed, it cannot be overlooked that while Racetrack did not think he was in love with Ellen, Ellen was almost certainly madly in love with him.

And so the months passed. Perhaps three nights out of seven, Racetrack would receive a visitor. Usually Spot, often Jack, but sometimes Mush and Blink both together, and once even David and Les – though Racetrack thought they probably could have visited him during the day, surely Frith could not object to the well-mannered Jacobs boys.

And it was lovely. Racetrack continued his lessons during the day and though he missed carrying the banner, gambling down at Sheepshead, and catching a late-evening trolley over to Brooklyn, it was enough that he got to see his friends. And then, suddenly, miraculously, it was late March. In only a few short weeks Racetrack would come into his fortune and – poor, naïve boy – he believed that if he could just keep fooling Frith for that much longer, he would be able to celebrate his eighteenth birthday with all his friends surrounding him in the daylight in his newly inherited mansion and everyone's troubles would be over.

But Frith was making his own plans, and the time was nearing when he would disclose to Racetrack that final request of his uncle's will – the last condition which Racetrack must meet in order to inherit even a penny.

_A/N:__ Please leave me some feedback, and I'll try to have the next chapter up as quick as I possibly can!_


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